Infidel
by the daroga
Summary: Who watches the watchers? The Persian learns something about his quarry. Intimations of slash.


You had to know I was there. There was no part of that labyrinth you did not know, had not mapped in that magnificent, monstrous brain. As surely as my blood knew its course when I saw you behind that mirror, you knew I was here. You had to. And yet, you made no indication of it. Even without your mask, you could be inscrutable.

You and your protégé had returned above, after two weeks of my demands that you let her go. I was under no delusion that your decision had anything to do with me, though that did not dissuade me from the task. I followed, at a discrete distance—I, too, had learned the art of subtlety—as you led her, wan and unprotesting, back to her dressing room. She slid behind the mirror, I behind a leftover pile of bricks and paving stones. Had you left these here, when constructing your beloved trapdoors? Among them, would I find the hollow bricks you made so useful?

Any moment you would turn, and confrontation would be inescapable. You had threatened to kill me, but threats had lost their sting when outweighed by my need to watch you. There would be no passing me in this tunnel. My only hope of the transgression being ignored was to leave now, while you were occupied with your silent goodbye.

The passage was lit only by the dim light from the one-way glass and the small covered lantern you carried for Christine's sake. She had not developed your comfort with the darkness. I expected you to extinguish the lamp, to turn, to stalk towards me and reenact our encounter at the fountain a fortnight previous. And still I did not go. And still you remained behind the mirror.

Your shoulders shook in mirth or tears, silent both, and knowing you it could be either. Had you watched her, unknowing, before? How many times had you stood here, your presence unfelt? If I could not feel your presence, it was because you were always with me. When I watched you, I felt observed. Seen. Looking at you made me visible. I was imperceptible to everyone else in your heathen country, and so I carried you with me to remain in this world.

You turned slightly, as if to follow her movements. The layout of the passage in which I hid meant that my view of you was somewhat oblique, and as you turned I could see that your shoulders shook not from laughter or pain but from the firm hand you had taken yourself in. I stifled my shocked gasp, holding myself still, above all else not wishing to be discovered at this moment. Your trousers were unbuttoned, rucked casually about your slim hips. Your cloak was thrown back, over your shoulder, so as not to get in the way, offering me a perfect view as you stroked the pale length of you in equally pale, strong hands.

I did not wish to be discovered. My eyes flew briefly, painfully, to your masked face. Christine must have been on her chaise, recovering from her ordeal, but I knew you had not touched the girl.

You were touching her now.

My eyes were drawn inexorably down to your hands, your deadly white fingers stroking with the grace of expertise. You pleasured yourself without pretense, without shame, and to my own I felt my member rise at the sight.

Though you retained the silence of one who had learned not to make his presence known, I could see your breath coming quicker, your movements gain intensity. You were past teasing now, pulling in earnest, alternating hard, thrusting jerks with a slow, agonizing twist now and again. I ached with the thought of those hands of death upon me; a thought my mind had never before passed within hearing of. It shocked me, this knowledge, the realization that this was what I wanted. That I was aroused by watching you. And at the disadvantage of one I'd sworn to protect.

My manhood jumped at the feel of my own hands through my trousers, hands that had moved traitorously. I wrenched them away, but you suddenly lifted one hand to tear away the mask and I saw tears, glinting in the stolen light as they rolled down your sunken cheeks. Black silk felt noiselessly to the stone floor and your hand rejoined its twin, your evil face twisted ferociously in painful pleasure that made you more ugly than ever.

My hands strayed back, my desire as great, it seemed, as your own, though the object differed. What did this mean? What did I do? This was not the way it was supposed to go; I had availed myself of the women Paris had to offer. Why this abomination? Why you?

I forced myself to keep still, forced my hands to content themselves with the cheap fabric, as you dispensed with the careful caresses, your arousal evident and proud, your hands dexterous and wild. As you reached your peak, I glanced up, and for a moment, nearly too quick for the eye to catch, your horrible face smoothed into something like a man's: eyes wide, mouth open, brow unlined and clear. With a great intake of breath you came, and I thought I might too, but I did not and you silently arranged your clothing, pulled your cloak around you, and left. I had not the strength to leave before you, nor hide myself more completely behind the masonry. But you walked past me, within two feet of me, and did not even look my way.

You had to have seen me. But you never said a word. And I crept forward to retrieve the mask you had dropped, unable to restrain myself from a glance through the mirror. Christine lay, as I had predicted, on her chaise; but her clothes were those she had worn on her way here. You had merely been gazing on her at rest, while I… I had no such excuse.

I did not give you the mask back, and you never requested it. It is only now, now that you are gone, that I have the courage to offer it.


End file.
